


Hot Nights, Exotic Substances, and Uninhibited People

by katrinajg



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Bar Room Brawl, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 13:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8016223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinajg/pseuds/katrinajg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hot nights, exotic substances, and uninhibited people; that was what Reaver assumed Samarkand would be like. For the most part, he was right. He also assumed that a continent between him and Sparrow was enough of a distance to live comfortably until he needed to visit the Shadow Court again. On that assumption, he was wrong. </p><p>*Basically, this is just a story where Sparrow and Reaver get into a massive, no-holds-barred battle for no other reason than I wanted them to duke it out, with a little bit of plot thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Nights, Exotic Substances, and Uninhibited People

Reaver had always lived by the rule that a bullet ended everything.

He had never been failed by a bullet. Nor by the precision of his Skill and the reliability of a well-crafted and maintained pistol. 

Everyone understood the universal language of the threat of an untimely death because nobody came back from a well-placed shot. At least, that’s what Reaver believed until _she_ came back from the bullet Lucien had expertly placed in her skull. 

To say he had been surprised, was a gross understatement.

Reaver liked to believe he wasn’t afraid of anyone –not strictly true, but there were some things, some people, that were simply ignored for the sake of sanity. However, the moment Sparrow appeared in that final Spire chamber -a swirling maelstrom of grief, rage, and Will- after being decidedly dead a few short moments before, Reaver was rudely reminded that there were people to be feared. 

That he _feared_ her.

The visceral reaction shocked him. Her white-hot fury wasn’t even focused on him, and yet somehow it managed to strike through the layers of Reaver’s carefully crafted façade and find the weak, miserable person he was beneath. That fear had carved cleanly through all the layers of murder, sexual depravity, narcotics, and thoughtless cruelties that kept Reaver as far from that man as possible. 

It was an uncomfortable moment, to be sure. 

When they first met, Reaver had an inkling of her power. A little worrisome tug in the back of his mind that began when she returned from the Shadow Court, not a day older, but with a fury that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. He foolishly ignored it, and with idiotic bravado he had even courted her ire. 

Now, it was only matter of time before such a white-hot fury was turned on him. 

It was best that he kept a safe distance from her; the only person he was sure who could, and would, cause a great deal of harm to his person. 

A continent was likely far enough. Probably. 

If he never laid eyes on Sparrow again, it would not be long enough.

\- - - -

Samarkand was a strange place, but Sparrow was enchanted. It was so very different from Albion. 

On the surface, it was an arid wasteland ruled by a few city-states near sources of water. They mostly spoke Samarian, but a few lesser settlements had their own dialects; thankfully, most traders spoke Albionish. Below that, Samarkand was a lawless country, with no central monarchy and no governing laws. Outside the city-states, raider gangs and marauders ruled, with only bounty hunters to keep them in check.

Sparrow travelled with Garth for a period of several months after the events of the Spire. She couldn’t stand the thought of returning to Albion, to all the misery and grief contained there, nor to the fawning accolades of the people she had saved. Garth seemed to understand that when she appeared next to him on that abandoned cullis gate in the ruins of an old Hero outpost. He offered to show her his home without her having to say a thing.

The individual city-states abide by their own laws and customs. Each was a unique jumbled mass of coloured fabrics, tented squalor, and gleaming gold glory. The streets were often narrow, always crowded, rife with crime, and just when Sparrow thought the wretchedness of a city could get no worse, the street would spill into a bright garden, or a glistening temple, or a humming square, and she would be enchanted all over again.

She enjoyed traveling with Garth; his dry wit made her laugh more in those few months than she had in a lifetime. He showed her how to better harness her Will, and how to gain greater endurance. He also taught her some basic Samarian so she would not be lost in a conversation and could get around when he was not. However, when Garth decided to stay in a city called Dartwen, Sparrow travelled on. 

When she arrived in a port city called Atmora, Sparrow finally admitted to herself that she was looking for Reaver. While traveling with Garth, she could write off her searching glances at the crowd as looking out for trouble. Or if a certain cadence of voice always turned her head, it was only because they were speaking her native tongue. However, in that city, that deprived pirate town, she couldn't lie to herself any longer. Why she was looking for Reaver was more of an uncertainty. 

Vengeance could certainly be part of it, a fight most definitely was. 

The only time she felt a spark of her true self, like she vaguely remembers being before she fell from that tower in Fairfax Castle, was during a fight. ‘Sparrow’ was the mask she wore crafted from other people’s thoughts and expectations of her, and because she had no idea how else to be, she accepted those things without ever making them her own. As strange as it may seem, she felt more alive during her time in the Spire then what had been her life up to that point. 

Since then, she had been wandering from battle to battle, from fight to fight, trying to find that elusive feeling again, trying to find herself again. When she died that last time, Sparrow had hoped that upon her revival, she might be whole again, but it seemed worse than before. The grief at losing her life-long companion and losing Rose again plagued her nightmares. 

Sparrow still did her duty as a Hero, helping people when she came across them, but she didn't actively seek any misdeeds to right. With Garth’s help, she had trained her Will to simmer below the surface of her skin, so that her Will lines no longer appeared unless the magic was being actively used. Without that clear indicator of her heritage, Sparrow found she was less inundated with sob stories and pleas for aid. She couldn't hide her height, however, and anyone who knew the stories of Heroes could and did ask for help. 

Because of this, Sparrow had helped a number of families in Atmora. She hoped that their tails of banditry and kidnapping might lead her to a whiff of Reaver, but it was always run-of-the-mill evil. The man was a ghost. She heard a few rumors about incredible feats of gunmanship, but they lead to nothing when she checked up on them. It was as though he knew she was looking for him and was making himself as scarce as possible. Considering what she knew about his personality, that was a fairly impressive feat.

As with all things, it was when she had finally given up searching for Reaver that she stumbled across him.

Sparrow was in one of Atmora's more upper-class taverns, though in that town, it was a term to be used loosely. They were the only taverns that served Albion whiskey -at outrageous prices, she might add- as the native swill just didn't agree with her. She was sitting at the bar when a woman slid up next to her.

"Two more, please," the woman said to the barkeep and gave him a saucy wink. 

Sparrow gave her a passing glance. Too well dressed to be a whore, but clearly a frequent patron. Sparrow watched out of idle curiosity as the woman grabbed the drinks and headed back to the rear of the tavern, where a tall, bulky man with a surly frown stood guard. 

In Samarkand, it was common for a tavern to have exclusive rooms where, if you had enough gold, any number of good times could be had. From alcohol, to women or men, to drugs, or any number of unsavory acts that didn't necessitate a second thought. She'd never been in one (gold could be better used, in her opinion), but Garth had explained them to her once when she asked about them. 

As the guard opened the door for the woman, she caught a snatch of a conversation. It wasn't in Albionish, but that _voice._ Sparrow straightened on the barstool, suddenly very intent on seeing past the hulking guard and into the room. However, there was nothing to see from this angle, nothing but a low hanging smoke that filled the space. 

It had to have been him. No one had a voice like that, even in another language. She was willing to bet the house it was Reaver.

Leaning over the bar, Sparrow gestured to the barkeep. He ambled over, an expectant look on his face. 

"How much gold to get into that room?" she asked and motioned to where the woman had disappeared. Her Samarian was rough but understandable. 

He gave her a meaningful once-over and shook his head. "Too much for you."

Admittedly, Sparrow looked like a vagrant. Her clothes were threadbare and patched, and her hair, shorn off in a fit of pique, curled oddly about her head in a sort of golden mop. However, anyone with an observant eye could see that her boots were new leather, and her gun and sword were of the highest caliber. Expensive things, all. She tossed a small bag of gold coins on the bar and let her Will lines flair briefly. 

"You'll tell the guard I've paid, won't you?"

The barkeep had more greed than good sense, barely sparing Sparrow's display a second glance as he snatched the gold purse from the table. She stood, finished the last of her drink in one hearty swig and headed for the back. At the door, the guard had her wait until he received his confirmation from the barkeep, then he swung the door inward and gestured for Sparrow to step inside. 

The room was poorly lit and the smoke was choking. Between the two, it made it hard to distinguish anyone or thing with a great deal of certainty. She moved forward carefully, one hand hovering near her pistol, listening for his voice in the murk. 

\- - - - 

As it turned out, a continent was not far enough. 

Sparrow pursued his person with a dogged determination that was rather annoying. His only saving grace was, that during the time she travelled with the old Will user, Reaver had established himself in Atmora. Which made avoiding her clumsy attempts at finding him simple. Though, he supposed, she was bound to have a bout of good luck at some point. 

Reaver was well on his way to being comfortably stoned (his was head buzzing and he had a pretty little lap warmer all too eager for a night of fun) when he felt it. Something about the room had shifted and the bitter tang of ozone got caught in the back of his throat. He impatiently shoved the woman off him and his hand went instinctively for his pistol, as Sparrow materialized out of the smoke. 

They stared at one another briefly -Reaver vaguely taking note of how she seemed to have lost her garish Will lines, though he could feel the energy crackling beneath her skin- before he did the only sensible thing anyone could do in a situation where someone has tracked you down for a spot of vengeance: he shot her. 

In the back of his mind, Reaver hoped that the third time would be the charm.

She moved with a speed he'd never seen in anyone but himself and tried to dodge the shot. She didn't entirely miss it, because Reaver had seen her tensing to move before he actually fired the shot; however, instead of finding it lodged in her heart, the bullet instead caught her in the shoulder. Sparrow grunted and rolled, taking shelter behind a chesterfield. Around them, the room erupted into shouts and cries of fear. 

Reaver calmly stood, though his heart had dropped to somewhere near the vicinity of his suede boots and that weak, miserable man tried to claw his way up to the surface as he screamed at Reaver to run. Through a combination of sheer force of will and the narcotics swimming through his system, Reaver managed to stamp that voice out. 

The noise died down in the room as the last of the patrons fled and Reaver could hear Sparrow shifting behind the chesterfield. Perhaps tending to her wound. He was moderately surprised when she spoke.

"Is that any way to greet an old acquaintance?" she asked, amusement coloring her tone. 

Good Avo, she was utterly stark raving mad.

"If said acquaintance is looking to do you bodily harm? I'd say so."

"Someone has to knock you down a few notches, Reaver." 

He heard her shift again and tracked the chesterfield with his pistol. 

"Ah, and you've volunteered for the job, have you? How noble."

He may have heard her give a low chuckle, but it was lost in the harsh scraping of the chesterfield across the wood floor as she kicked it toward him and sprang up from behind it. A flash of electricity sizzled along behind it and Reaver dove out of their path, the tail edges of his coat getting singed as the lightning set the chesterfield ablaze. 

He does not remember how they made it out of the smoky back room and out into the main bar, but he was fairly certain that Sparrow took out the wall _after_ they exited the room. A particularly powerful force spell blew the wood to splinters, and would have gotten him as well had he not shot her in the leg causing her aim to go awry. It was a difficult shot and had to be ricocheted off a brass bell near the bar, as he took cover behind a downed table, to hit her.

She reciprocated with several magical blades that pierced his extremities through the cover of the table. He screeched in pain and though his arm was aching and unsteady as he brought his gun around, Reaver fired at her again. With her injured leg, she was unable to dodge the shot and brought up a magical barrier to deflect the bullet. Reaver swore and fired again out anger, the recoil on the pistol causing pain to arc through his injured arm.

The barrier took the second shot but flickered and disappeared. He saw his opportunity, and so did she. 

Sparrow leapt up and over the bar, with all the grace of a mortally injured cat, as Reaver’s shot grazed the bar and tore through the side of her cheek before she managed to fall behind it. Clenching his jaw, Reaver fought the urge to scream out in frustration. Then, something hit the face of the table he was behind with a dull clunking sound and he saw her turret pistol skitter across the taverns wood floor. 

Cautiously, Reaver peered over the top of the table, wondering if that wasn’t a sign of surrender, and Sparrow hit him with a Force Push spell. It knocked the Dragonstomper from his grip and threw him and the table backwards across the tavern. He clipped another table on the way back, cracking a couple of ribs before he slammed against the wall. Reaver somehow managed to roll to the side before the table splintered itself against the wall. 

Sparrow hobbled out from behind the bar, blood-soaked and deathly pale, gripping her sword. It seemed her Will had finally burnt itself out. Her cheek was a ragged mess and a river of blood cascaded down the side of her neck. The torn edges were pulled in and pushed out in time with her heavy breathing. She spit out a broken chunk of tooth on the floor. 

Reaver stood, using the wall for support and drew his rapier. 

They fell into a sword duel. Her swordsmanship was impressive, but lacked next to her magical and ranged abilities. Reaver kept advancing, driving her backwards, and making her cede ground to him. His body was screaming in protest to this use of his damaged muscles, but it all seemed worth it when Sparrow stumbled on the warped tavern floor.

A swell of elation rose within him as he moved to finish her off, once and for all, but Sparrow was not to be discounted. She had regained enough of her Will to throw a cast iron candlestick into the side of his head. Reaver’s world whited out in a moment of sheer blinding pain, but he still managed to thrust his rapier into her gut. It prevented her from finishing him off while he shook off the dizzying effects of a concussion. Unfortunately, he now lacked a weapon. 

Reaver sank to the ground, clutching his head as a trail of fresh blood flowed down the side of his face from a gash that stretched from his temple to the top of his cheek. Across from him, he heard the _clank_ of one sword hitting the ground, then another, and her groan of pain as Sparrow collapsed to her knees. 

From the corner of his eye, Reaver spotted their pistols tangled together and lunged for them. He aimed his Dragonstomper at her, meaning to finally put this idiotic duel to an end, but found he was physically unable to pull the trigger. 

Sparrow was attempting to pull the gun out of his hand with her Will, as she held her free hand against the bleeding stab wound in her gut. Her own turret pistol was lying next to her knees, forgotten. The force of her Will could not remove the gun from his hand, but nor could the force of his Skill let him fire it. 

Around them, a strange pressure grew and the air became hot. 

Then, like a cork popping off a champagne bottle, the energy building between them exploded in a forceful blast. It tossed them out the bar's front window and into the street. For a moment, they lay there stunned and gasping for air as the shattered remains of the window tinkled down around them. 

Still clutching his pistol, Reaver swung it across his body and aimed it at her. The movement made him grunt in pain and she turned her head to look at him, eyes blazing strangely in the gas light of the street.

She wheezed a sound that might have been laughter and burbled, "You fired your last shot as we went out the window."

He pulled the trigger anyways and was met the hollow clicking noise of an empty chamber. Blast it all! He let the gun drop to his side. 

A moment of inaction passed and he could see the hesitant movement of a few residents down the street. Watching. Waiting. It was somewhat embarrassing to be laid out in the street like this -bloodied and broken. Clearly, it was putting a rather sizeable dent in his ‘untouchable’ reputation. _Heroes_ , he thought with no little amount of disdain.

Reaver heard the crunch of glass as Sparrow shifted and he glanced at her. She was trying to get into a small rucksack that somehow managed to stay on her person throughout their fight. He looked away again and up into the sky. A few stars could be seen winking in the distance through the light pollution of the city. 

Then, something cold and hard bumped into the side of his face. A health potion. 

Reaver stared at it for several moments, unable to make it make sense in his brain. He might have been hit harder than he thought. Then, he heard the stopper being pulled on the potion that Sparrow had in her hand, and that helped to clear some of the fuzz in his brain. Reaver crawled into a sitting position, his ribs screaming at him, and grabbed the health potion. 

"Are you quite finished?" he gasped, yanking the stopper. The liquid was sickly sweet with an undertone of bitterness. He grimaced at the taste and felt his flesh begin to knit itself back together; the sensation was unpleasant, to say the least.

She made an odd jerking motion with her shoulders that might have been a shrug. “Yeah.”

He watched as Sparrow poured the clear liquid of her health potion onto her wounds and that she avoided the gaping one on her face. Reaver might have laughed if he thought his ribs could handle the strain. So, she was vain enough to wait for a doctor to stitch her face back together rather than suffer with the puckered white scar that the health potion would make of the ragged edges of the wound. 

The Avinian monks would be scandalized. 

Reaver touched the edges of the gash across his cheek. It seemed to be healing nicely, but there weren’t any chunks of glass large enough to check. He supposed if it were really horrible looking he could cover it with a bit of make-up, and bide his time until the next payment was due. The youthfulness of some poor sop would turn it into a fine white line, same as all the rest. 

Beside him, Sparrow stood on shaky legs. He tracked her movements with wary eyes as she stumbled through the tavern’s door. If he had any ammunition left he had have put a bullet in the back of her head. Two, probably, for good measure, since she appeared incapable of dying like a decent human being. 

Of course, one might make a similar argument about him. _He,_ however, had never returned from the dead and certainly not more than once. 

The residents were starting to creep closer and Reaver pointed his pistol at them, they stopped, some even fled. _Good._ Then, he stood, with no grace whatsoever, and he grimaced at his own clumsiness. Despite the dull pain that had settled into his ribs -and would undoubtedly be sticking around for least a week until his Hero physiology had well and truly healed him-, Reaver drew himself up to his full height and cursed slightly when he tottered on unsteady legs.

Sparrow exited the tavern then. He watched as she drove the end of his rapier in-between the cracks of the streets cobblestones several feet from his grasp. He winced, thinking of what that was doing to the delicate end as it warbled back and forth. She started up the street and away from him; sword blade banging against her thigh and turret pistol clutched in a death grip. 

“Thanks for the fight,” she said with something approaching genuine gratitude in her voice; the gaslights of the street glinting off the gory mess that was the side of her face as she cast one last look at him. 

“You are most decidedly _not_ welcome,” Reaver called after her as he plucked his rapier out of the cobblestones, wincing as his muscles protested. 

Her only reply was ragged laughter that bounced along the street.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you spend the day going though your fanfiction folder on your computer and find a work that was pretty much done but never posted.


End file.
